Page 16 of About Last Christmas
He’s staring at me like I materialized out of thin air, and not as if this particular dot on the map is where I spend ninety percent of my life.
“I can’t believe it’s you,” he finally says, the dripping blood runs over his lip, and he gives a quick shake of the head, as if remembering he’d just had a near-death experience. “Did you witness that?” He jerks a thumb at Mitzy’s retreating form.
“Your heroics? Yes.”
“All for a doll.”
It’s not difficult to grasp his frustration. He could’ve been seriously injured, killed even. It does prove that he’s not the villain I painted him for all those months. “Well, think on the bright side. Mitzy called you a hero. You’ll be named heir to her vast doll collection. I hope you don’t find a hundred unblinking eyes deeply unsettling.”
He chuckles lightly, which brings out his dimples. “Was it me or did she get handsy?”
“Trauma response. Probably.” She really does love those dolls. And apparently, she loves a fine, masculine physique. Leo seems to have a way with the ladies from Silver Creek. Not me, though. Absolutely not me. I take in the gash on his face. “You should probably get cleaned up.” My conscience pinches my stubbornness. “Come on.” I wave at him to follow me into the store.
He does. I turn back at him, and he seems more confused now than when lying in the street holding Frieda. “You work here? At The Memory Bank?”
I nod. “I own this place.” I watch as he glances around, and my breath thins. This is my fifteen-hundred square feet of safe space. I have every aisleway, nook, and corner memorized to the point that I could skip around with my eyes closed. But having him here feels like I’m exposed somehow, like that reoccurring dream where I’m standing on the fifty-yard line on the high school football field wearing only a towel. Though I have to say that dream’s far better than those in which I’m losing all my teeth. I shudder and return to the moment—the one where Leo’s in my store, bleeding, and I’m trying to remember when I dusted last. I offer him a wad of paper towels from the roll behind the counter. “Give me just a sec to grab the first-aid kit.”
He pats the makeshift bandage on his face but completely misses the source of the wound. Without thinking, I take thetowels from his hand and press it to the cut near his hairline. “Hold firm. Like this.”
He clasps his hand over my own. “I didn’t know you owned this place.”
And we’re back to this again. His palm is warm and calloused and doing things to my brain, though I’m more concerned about his right now, namely if it’s swelling. “Do you have a concussion?” I lift on my toes and peer into his eyes. Attractive, yes, but something else lingers in those dark depths. While I can’t determine the mystery swirling among the gold flecks in deep brown irises, I can see that his pupils aren’t dilated. “How many faces do I have?”
“One.” A flirty smile touches his lips, then quietly fades. Just as I had examined his features, scanning every spot, he’s now studying mine. Except I don’t have a bloody gash on my head. His inspection is different, an excruciatingly slow perusal. “An unforgettable one.”
Before I sway under his charm, I realize he didn’t say anything romantic about my face. Not pretty. Not beautiful. Only unforgettable. Some could say my tenth-grade science teacher had an unforgettable face, but it was the absolute opposite of dreamy. I tug my hand from beneath his, ignoring the tingling sensation racing to my toes, and he resumes the task of putting pressure on the wound. “Are you turning delirious? Head wounds can do that to you.”
“No, it’s just … your store was where I was headed before all of this happened.” He gestures with his other hand toward his bleeding face. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
I retreat a step. “So if you’d known, you wouldn’t have come?”
He blows out a breath. “No. Not that at all. I’m glad you’re here.” The taut line between his brows gentle. “I was hoping to see you again.”
Okay. This is interesting. “You could’ve asked around. I’m not that hard to find.”
“I had. But I guess I asked the wrong people. I even talked to Mitchell, you know, the deputy. I’ve bumped into him several times, but he refused to tell me anything.”
That tracks. Growing up with Tilly as my best friend, Mitchell thinks of me like a little sister. He’s both protective and annoying. Though he at least could’ve mentioned Leo asked about me. Knowing Leo was searching for me would’ve chiseled down the spikes of my irritation.
“About last Christmas,” he begins. “I owe you an apology. Something came up.” And thatsomethingmust’ve been an interesting event because his jaw hardens and his gaze drops to his boots. He shifts from one foot to the other, as if weighing what he wants to reveal. After a few seconds, his lashes lift, and whatever emotion he was working to hide is gone. “I couldn’t get in touch with you to let you know I couldn’t make it.”
“I see.” His excuse is believable. I’ll give him that. It’s hard to contact someone without their full name or number.
“I was planning on going.” His voice lowers. “But work needed me, and I couldn’t get out of it.”
I tilt my head. His work. Right. He told me he’s employed by the town of Silver Creek, and yet no one knew of him. I’m not sure I feel like calling him on it. What would it accomplish? It’s not like we can go back in time. Oh, but if that were possible, I wouldn’t have gone to that icy park bench, and I wouldn’t have missed so much that night.
“I’m really sorry.”
“It’s fine.” I shrug like it’s no big deal. “I’m not heartbroken or anything.” And I wasn’t. I was more annoyed at the situation and what resulted from it. I glance at the paper towel, now stained red. “You need something on your head. I’ll be right back.” I hustle to my office and grab the first-aid kit.
I return to find him bending over the glass case, surveying the assortment of vintage tools. He finds me approaching and stands to full height. I don’t recall him being that tall. He’s got about a foot on me, making me wish I would’ve worn higher heels to narrow (at least slightly) the difference between us.
I drag my stool out from behind the counter and point. “Sit.” I don’t always treat my customers like German Shepherds but nothing about this is normal.
He obeys with a slight twist to his mouth.
I crack open the kit and grab a cleaning agent. Sunshine from the storefront window streams across the space, washing Leo’s profile with light. Dots of grime sprinkle his brow ridge, and his hair is dusted with dirt. Ugh, I should probably scan his scalp for injury too.
